


𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎

by heliianth



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: "acting" lol, AI Tony Stark, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternate Universe - Space, Happy Hogan is a Good Bro, M/M, Other, Outer Space, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker is a Little Shit, Science Fiction, Sort of? - Freeform, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, i mess around with fonts so if that bothers u then dont read? idk, kind of angst but not really? you'll see ig, more tags are gonna be added later bc tbh i need to do some actual notes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:00:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21800575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heliianth/pseuds/heliianth
Summary: Peter had been preparing for nearly his entire life. He looked down at marble roads and bleached mansions for as long as he could remember. People never used his name, only his honorific, and talked to him with emotionless faces if They allowed people to talk to him at all. By all means, he should be familiar with the feeling of unbelonging and Their eyes staring down his neck.He was not, and he never would be. He couldn't do this, none of them could.He needed to leave.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark, eventual Harley Keener/Peter Parker
Comments: 5
Kudos: 26





	𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH to my amazing wonderful tulip who also beta'ed this mess!!! go check her out on tumblr @soph-the-sad-lad (she gave me permission to eXpOsE HeR >:)) 
> 
> for people wondering if i'm ever gonna revive my hydra!Peter fic: i'm working on it. my mental health is down the toilet and this is just more fun to write. im sorry, it's not dead i promise lol. neither am i tho!!! i think thats important. 
> 
> pleas enjoy this thing!!

𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚊 𝟷-𝟼-𝙰𝙱𝙺𝙹𝙻-0𝟾, 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚊. 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚢 0𝟿, 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚒𝚛𝚌𝚕𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚛𝚔 00𝟸0𝟷𝟿𝚋.𝚎.

𝟸𝟾 𝚜𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 000𝟸0𝟺𝚊.𝚎.

𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎.

  
  


The causeways were alight with an array of crimson rose petals. A hidden, double-edged gesture. The ruby was a lovely contrast to the white marble and the battery blue lanterns which cast unnatural light patterns on the ground. They seemed like primeval hypnotic machines. He would not put it past Them to use everything in Their power to ensnare passersby. 

Peter averted his eyes away from the road, grimacing. The Watchers always arranged coronations, even when the participant’s family protested it. Laws forbade Them from meddling with work involving minors, but They were above them. They were above everything; They were the Watchers. And without a blood relative, it left him to Their razored words, sharp like weapons.

They deemed his coronation fit for roses, deep red and ivory, and adorned with orange day lilies.

It was a jab. Mourning. Forgetfulness. Death. Crimson roses did not mean love, and They knew that he saw so. They coated the lanes with their petals, anyway.

The covered chariot thundered as it followed its scripted path, letting peering eyes peer at elusive Peter; a Starchosen boy without the heritage required. He personified the end of an era, and some clenched their jaws at him for it. How dare he be Chosen? He, the least suitable? He, the last choice, a living affront? An affront to some rich nobles who had nothing but time to scrabble for influence, perhaps. Peter thought his life had been rather dull when viewed through their lenses, he thought he had done nothing to provoke them into their stubborn bitterness. Monotony meant to provoke disinterest, but it seemed to do quite the opposite. Disinterest bred rumors, and rumors bred intrigue, and intrigue bred trouble for the cards against his chest.

Like a sailor set adrift, he had no authority over the currents. If he had a voice, he would turn the decorative chariot around and never come back. He felt so exposed as he was lead around pearly white housing quarters and bottled up in a grand-windowed carriage where civilians examined him like a pet. 

Wheels screeched, he drew his knees up to his ribs. The parade lasted for thirty minutes, the ceremony only fifteen, and the celebration many more than that. Everything ended when night came to crown him under silver starlight. 

The guidelines called for him to be alone for nearly the entire coronation–the only exception being his escort. Three sacred hours following the ceremony required complete and utter isolation so that the Star’s decision remained uncontested. Those would be the hardest, he thought. There would be no walkie, no talking, no privacy. Just himself and the Watchers. 

He tapped the small piece of metal wrapped around his notched ear, waiting a couple seconds to hear the familiar whine of the microphone starting up. A smile blossomed on his lips when neon blue filled his vision.

“𝙷𝚎𝚢, 𝚔𝚒𝚍.”

He was not alone now, though. Here was his card. “Hi, Mr. STARK,” he responded, voice a reverential whisper. 

“𝚂𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝, 𝙸'𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚘𝚕𝚍,” STARK bit back. Peter could almost hear the crinkle in his nose and the dimples on his cheeks. 

“Technically, no.” He glanced up and out of the chariot window. They wouldn’t Watch inside. Once he stepped out of the carriage, though… “You’re not old. AI’s can’t age, Mr. STARK.” 

The Salus Technology for Advice, Reassurance, and Kindness system used to be a primordial, half corrupted file on an equally ancient Salus ship. When he found it, Peter snatched it and stowed it away where They could not look. Where it was secure, solitary, and secret. STARK, subsystem TONY, was his most precious connection to the outside world. No matter how much programmed guilt that STARK felt for what came after They found him alone, Peter never once regretted anything he’d done. Not a single thing. 

“𝙷𝚊𝚑𝚊, 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚢. 𝙰𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚎, 𝙿𝚎𝚝𝚎? 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚘𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚗.” How silly he was to assume something so obvious would slip past the AI.

“I’m…” Peter worried his lower lip between his teeth, “I’m inside of the coronation chariot,” he explained. “I’m supposed to be by myself.” 

STARK laughed, but Peter didn’t miss the mechanical undertone. It was a blatant reminder that once he stepped out onto the pristine roads, there would be nothing but the Watchers and his thoughts. If he wore the walkie They would catch him and take everything he’d sheltered away. 

When his caretakers took him to the lab again, he’d have to amend the auditory library. He didn’t enjoy being reminded of his disobedience. 

Was it disobedience if no one knew?

“𝚂𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚢. 𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚍𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚢, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠,” he hummed. Information scrolled across the holographic HUD. STARK collected data on anything he could detect, from conversations outside to the rotation of New Terra. Peter deliberately avoided looking at the facial recognition column. 

“Yeah,” Peter breathed. “Yeah, you did.” Curly gelled hair resisted his nervous fingers when he tried to run a hand through it.

The chariot stopped. He took in a breath and locked it behind his teeth, eyes wide when he looked up.

“𝙿𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝙷𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝙷𝚘𝚐𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐; 𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚎, 𝙽𝚎𝚠–” Peter slipped the earpiece off and trapped it in a tight fist. He could hear his heartbeat in his throat, a throbbing sensation not that dissimilar from being strangled. 

The door opened, and with the rush of air that surged out of the door also went the grounding sense of security. 

A man with dark brown-grey hair and coffee eyes held out his hand for Peter to take. His lower lids drooped with exhaustion and slightly freckles cheeks made his bags more prominent. Textured skin was so curious to see outside of his caretakers. The elaborate stitching in his clothing drew the attention away from his worn face, red and gold silk decorated in ivory embroidery honored the state colors from before the Expansion. A slightly rotund stomach peeked through the oversized robes. A sign of wealth. To Peter it was a sign of pardon; his caretakers always made sure that he never got very wide nor very tall. He never understood why until he appeared in public to be announced as the Chosen and a sniper shell grazed his ear not a second thereafter. Stunting his growth was a satisfactory trade for making him a smaller target. 

He gave the man–Harold Hogan, if he remembered–a tentative smile despite his unusual disposure, trying to be kind. Hogan gave him a frown. “Starchosen,” he addressed him. “Chin up, feet steady. Don’t let Them see that you are weak.”

Peter nodded and exhaled space dust. The air was chalky. The metal in his hand was searing his skin, branding him. He stuck his chin up. 

The man gripped his free hand, squeezing his small gloved fingers with rough pressure. His eyes were austere and reminded him of beetle shells now, not coffee. Coffee was welcoming, but Hogan’s hands and eyes were frigid. “Remember,” he instructed Peter with gravel in his heavy voice, _“non soli sumus.”_

When his feet crushed them underfoot, the crunching sound that the rose petals made was grotesque. Like stepping on animal bones. The hair on the back of his neck stood, he could feel Their eyes and the eyes of the people that were so hungry to steal a glance at him.

Coronation reminded him of Old Terran marriage, the comparison was not a pretty one. Though it made him cringe to think about, it was apt, he found, because he was being secured to an empire instead of a person. They would sew his skin to responsibility and lonesomeness as a tailor would sew a button to a tattered shirt. The notion made his breath catch. 

Marble buildings stared him down, reflecting the sunlight with violent intensity. Old-fashioned clothing lines hung with bright garments and bowed with the weight of black crows sitting upon the string. Something about this felt weird–no, not weird, just different in how the buildings shone but weren’t shiny. They seemed unpolished and yet over tended to. The more spacious few had groomed lawns which sported cheap flowers and weeds as their pride. Sloppy fences that looked hastily erected surrounded the grass, messy yet painted with white to imply false neatness. Different indeed. How so many people could live so close together, with family households stacked on top of the other, he would never know. Ever. He’d not experienced it before, and it would be absurd to dream of it. He didn’t want an experience such as that. 

Beyond the over-under-groomed houses, the First Circle wall stood proud and old. It was the first thing built here, to secure the upper class. Peter intended to savor these different sights during the parade. He would only see this much of the colony from outside of his window afterwards. 

Curiosity, despite the steadfast certainty that They would never allow him such a life, was a recognizable but unwelcome sensation peculiar in its prevalence but not in its feeling. He was a bone, and it was no one’s fault that it loved the taste of his marrow. The minute he considered himself used to it, fate threw him into a game of fetch. This was his way of relieving it, in a way.

His escort’s hand was far too much like a weighted shackle for his liking. 

Onlookers whispered, voices much too loud to remain unheard yet low enough to not warrant a hush. Most observed the parade with wonder, others with blatant disinterest, but a few eyes made his skin sprout goosebumps. They could see through him like he was cleaned glass and did so as easily as a child saw creatures in the clouds where there was nothing but fluff. It was a heavy gaze, almost blaming in nature, and scalding. Peter hoped that maybe if he could do anything but stare back, their eyes would be more cordial. 

“May I wave?” he asked. Hogan still held his hand in an iron grasp, like he was preventing him from sprinting the opposite direction. 

“No,” was the short answer. “You do not acknowledge them.”

Peter turned back to the crowd, mouth forming a line. “Why not?” He looked up at the harsh profile of his face. Oh, how only a crooked nose could make a silhouette look wicked. 

“They are not worth your time,” cold chestnut eyes found his. Maybe he was underexposed, but even in illustrations eyes did not look the way Hogan’s did. Stern and dangerous in the manner that only someone who made promises rather than threats was. Peter resisted a shiver. 

When he finished with this, he reasoned, he could wave from behind the glass of his window all he wished. But it wasn’t the same. “Why not?” he echoed.

“You are chatty, aren’t you?” the man retorted. “Talking is not permitted.” 

“You’re talking.” 

He sighed, grip loosening. Like turning a light switch off, he was another person. His eyes were still frightful and foreign, but now they had a tired, human quality to them, even in their unfamiliar state. “Listen, kid. No one is paying me to do this parade with you.” 

Peter brightened a little at having drawn a little personality from him. He was thinking They sent him a statue as a guide, a statue with loud footsteps. “I’m aware,” he lied in a hushed voice. His words got stuck behind his tongue, petals shriveling and dying when he saw the pale cliff of the First Circle barrier. Thorns pricked at the inside of his throat, so many roses growing from his lungs only to meet their end at his lips. 

Hogan redirected his eyes to the first set of gatehouses, gripping his hand so hard that red bruises blossomed on the side of his palm. “Now is the time for silence.” 

The earpiece buzzed in his hand when they stopped. No longer hearing the monotonous pace of shoes against white stone causeways was a relief. Yet there was another plague. 

He’d have to drop it. STARK, he’d have to drop STARK. There was no way he could perform the check with his right hand folded the entire time. He hadn’t predicted a search point. Every outcome he conjured up led to a disaster. Roses scratched at the roof of his mouth. 

A guard with a gait he recognized greeted them before the foot of the outer gate. Her name was Cassidy Lauren, she got promoted when he was only ten years of age. She was only two years older than him. He never forgot the candy she slipped under his door when she passed by the hall, even when she disappeared for five years. 

Now he wondered how much those candies cost, and if her and her father could have afforded it. Had he been unwittingly stealing from them? Was it wrong to accept gifts from people who were not his caretakers? 

He wished STARK never told him about her parent’s divorce. 

She greeted him with a mellow, “Hello, Starchosen.” 

Some days he wondered if people even knew his name. 

“May I see your hand?” She took his hand, fingers gentle while she pried the fist apart. Peter half expected the walkie had broke because of how hard he’d been holding it. “Is this a fidget?” she inquired with a neutral face. When she walked down the halls with her supervisor, Cassidy’s footsteps had always been so energetic. Her demeanor dulled such enthusiasm. 

“Yes,” Peter said with false confidence. Hogan shifted at the lie.

“Of what nature?” 

“To keep me focused.” 

She picked it up, and he had to hold down a surge of panic. No one but him had ever touched that. It was his; it was his! She would ruin it!

“You may pick it up after your title is official,” she handed it to her partner, who had been lingering like a silent ghost behind her, Watching. 

Peter kept watery eyes in check by tilting his chin to the sky. He was not weak. However, seeing the man drop STARK into a plastic bag like he was a dirty piece of evidence from a crime scene made him feel it.

Her lips twisted into a fleeting expression of sympathy, but even that disappeared as soon as it appeared. “My apologies, but you know Their rules.” 

He did. Not well enough, it seemed.

“No harm done,” he assured in a strained tone. He could feel Them, now that he was without his shield. They were all over, searching his body with Their eyes as if They had never seen him before, as if he had not been the most monitored person on New Terra the minute the last Chosen disappeared. He felt so tiny under Their scrutiny, not in the way someone felt insignificant, but fragile. It would not be hard to break him if They pushed. 

“I’m glad.” She was not glad, she was indifferent. He missed the candy-girl. “You may pass.” 

“Thank you,” Hogan said for him, even though he did not share the sentiment. 

He felt robbed. 

They breezed past the second gate without being stopped. Observing eyes seared blistering craters into his back. “You should consider yourself fortunate,” he was told. “They could’ve been much less merciful, Starchosen.” 

“My name is Peter,” he spat back. There was a special exhaustion brewing in his veins, a kind of sleepiness that made him frustrated and scared. “I am a person, not a title.” 

Hogan pulled him forward, and once again they started walking, this time away from the great wall and towards the one thing Peter wanted to hide from. “Here, you are not.”

A single, rebellious tear landed on the flawless road. Here the houses were bigger, grander, and would be beautiful if they were not so cruel. They represented the people that inhabited them; the people gathered on the streets. Gossip floated among them, and they squawked to each other like buzzards. The tear had not gone unnoticed. 

He felt like he had stained the road with his inappropriate emotions. “I can’t do this,” he whispered, tongue thick in his mouth, like the poisonous honey of a spider’s nest. Bees did not do the feeling justice. 

“None of them could.” Hogan looked at him. Perhaps Peter had misinterpreted his gaze when he met him; it was not dangerous, it was guarded. It was the gaze of a prey animal that a predator had hurt too many times, and vowed to not be so foolish again. “I’m sorry, Peter.” 

* * *

**𝚖𝚎𝚖▘𝚛𝚢 ▙▞▛▋▍▟▞**

<𝙸𝙽𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙿𝙻𝙴𝚃𝙴 𝙵𝙸𝙻𝙴>

𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚊 𝟷-𝟷-𝙰, 𝚎𝚊▜𝚝▞, 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚢𝚘▙𝚔 𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢, 𝚞𝚗𝚒▞▟𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 ▋𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚊. 

𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚊 𝟷-𝟸-𝙷𝙺𝙶𝙶▋▍▍❙▞𝚝-0𝟷. 𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚎𝚍𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 ▘

0𝟸 𝚍𝚎▟▚▜𝚎𝚛 𝟸0𝟷𝟽...

𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐..▋

𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚛𝚋𝚒𝚝: 𝟹𝟸.

𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜. 

𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚡𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝▞𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚗𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝟸0𝟷𝟾. 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚞𝚗 𝚘𝚞𝚝.

𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚘𝚡❙▍𝚐𝚎𝚗.

𝚒 𝚊𝚖 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚏𝚞𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚞𝚜𝚎. 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚢 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗. 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 ▋𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚒𝚡 𝚜𝚊𝚏𝚎𝚝𝚢 𝚗𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗▞▟𝚛𝚒𝚘. 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚗. 𝚒 𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚊𝚗... 𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏. 𝚞𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠. 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜, 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚏 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔▘ 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢. 𝚋𝚢 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚍. 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙 𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚕𝚢.

𝚒 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗. 𝚑▟𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚔▚𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚔𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚢 𝚊𝚜𝚜, 𝚒 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚍𝚖𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑.

𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚊𝚟▞▜𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚜𝚙𝚊▜𝚎 𝚓𝚎𝚝 0𝟿: 𝚙𝚛𝚘▛▛▞𝚎𝚌𝚝 ▘𝚜▚▍𝚕𝚞▙”. 𝚌𝚑▞▋𝚎𝚗 𝚊.𝚎.𝚜. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


𝚙𝚛𝚘▙▜❙𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐..▘

𝚛𝚎𝚌▟𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚎▙▚𝚛𝚘𝚛: 𝚞𝚗▛▚𝚔▞▚𝚠▋▍𝚗.

𝚖𝚎▚▟𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚛▜▞❙𝚎𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚍. ▋▍▍❙ ▘

**Author's Note:**

> im gonna try really hard not to project but there's gonna be a little. idk if its noticeable or not but whatev
> 
> leave a comment if you have anything to say, this is a new writing style and i'm not sure if people will like it! criticism is always, always welcome and i read everything <3
> 
> yell at me on tumblr @viviixen


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